


The Small Print

by jamnesias



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blindness, Character Study, M/M, Muteness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Senses, Sensory Deprivation, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamnesias/pseuds/jamnesias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-film, AU that ignores BDS2.</p><p>Aequitas and Veritas, taken more literally. Connor can no longer speak lies; Murphy can't see anything except justice, to do or be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Print

 

_ it scares the hell out of me _

_ the end is all I can see _

Thoughts of a Dying Atheist - Muse

* * *

There are only four things that Connor trusts completely.

God.

Murphy.

Scars.

Instinct.

 

They don’t necessarily go in that order. 

* * *

 

No matter what their mother says, or might finally fucking say _one day_ , though it won’t be to them, Connor won’t believe her on who came out first. She’s a bag of lies, clever when she puts her mind to it. Keeps the truth from them about some things. Like _Da._

Connor reckons it’s a way to force them to find out for themselves, and he loves her, but Christ.

There are some things they know for sure ( _sure_  being her sober moments, or other relatives, things that were said and…settled in him, when he glanced sideways at Murph). Things that just felt...felt right. _Which begs the question of why ya got it on your **left,** then, Conn,_  Murph says, head tilted, fucking smartarse, smirking at Connor as he holds his own right hand under the warm tap. The shape of the fresh tattoo down over his trigger finger sharply coloured and still bleeding ink like a broken pen. Connor shoving him; Murph grinning, shoving back. 

There are three things that they trust.

One: He came out with his hands fisted. (Told this by Uncle Seamus after the first time Connor flared in anger and hit someone, properly. Laughing and clapping his back and saying he’d _known_ it, that must be Connor’s calling – though it didn’t fucking feel like it, _Jesus_  it hurt - and then telling Murph to stuff one of the tea towels behind the bar with ice for Connor’s knuckles. Murph biting his lip and looking at Connor as he got it, too. The idea of him born like that, the idea throbbing between them and then Murph nodding his agreement, all laced with pride and fire and sin.)

Two: Murphy came out face up. ( _Always fuckin’ looked too far forwards, this one_  Ma said, throwing an arm across the kitchen table at them in a gesture that makes her bracelets clack together and Murphy flinch against the steak that Connor was holding against his bruised face. _Why don't ya stop and look around at where you’re actually going?_

Murph neglected to comment on the fact that he was following Connor, moving along the wall exactly when Connor did, his arms outstretched for balance, wobbling on the wet rocks.

Connor said nothing about the fact that he was following Murph as well - on a parallel wall, far enough away that they had to raise their voices to talk across the river between them, that he was watching Murph out of the corner of his eye and stepping along along the wall when he did, skidding a bit on slippery slate.

That didn't count as a lie, not saying it. He was too busy frowning at the scratches on Murph’s jaw, at that moment, so it wasn't intentional.

Three: Oh, oh, the third is the one they'll never forget. It was a fucking hard birth (and Ma tells them always, every week. Sometimes every _day_.) But it's not about Ma's stomach anymore, it's Connor's: the echo of a twist below his navel every time he comes up out of sleep as a child and lifts his head from the pillow to find Murph’s got up before him, he’s not there. Half memory of a feeling that's still raw and fresh and as _wrong,_ in his adult days, as the space and the cold sound and the disturbed air. A loss, a panic, distress at noise and movement and the tiny, endless knowledge that his other wasn't there, stretching back to that first time ever, when he was a babe. What had made his little fists curl up and shudder until Murph came back again. 

 

* * *

In a way, this is all familiar. New hotel room, new uneven bed, kaying in it with their boots and clothes on just in case they were followed. The ache under his closed eyes that comes with the adrenaline of the day’s job draining off. Dozy pitch-dark in the room, with warmth against his side.

You could caption this picture 'normality'. It looks just like how things became in the space of a few months, for them. Except, although it's _familiar, familiar_ is not _the same_. There’s no Da in a chair, or even nextdoor, and it’s twice as quiet as ever; an end of corridor room, even though Da would have called that more suspicious, because Murphy hears things more sharply than ever now.

A door slams above them, perfectly timed, and he winces in his sleep. 

Connor shifts and barely murmurs for him; just breathes almost-sound, mouth under his ear. Palm on his belly with his thumb smoothing slow.

The biggest difference to the picture now: the dark would be no different even if Murphy _opened_  his eyes.

Aunt Aileen told them, once, trying to come up with good reasons for seven year old brothers as to why they shouldn’t be punching each other, that when they were babes, just born, if one was lifted out of the cot without the other other Murphy would kick his feet and cry and Connor would curl his fists. How that was lovely, wasn’t it? (Muttering as she straightened, _holy fuck and Our Father,_ they were _sweet_  boys once.)

Connor had then explained very clearly that Murphy was _stupid_  and had thrown a marble at him; Murph shouted it was only ‘cause Connor stole his pillow, Connor looked at him and frowned hard and shoved him, because Murph had dribbled all over his.

Now Murphy has climbed blindly into his one of the two shitty hotel beds, again. They barely fit in it, clinging at first to get their balance. They must look like two people knocked together, thrown into this place. When Murph got in he'd missed, bumped his nose hard against Connor’s chin and grunted in surprise and pain – so Connor had shifted further and reached a hand over the back of his neck, guiding him down.

Legs tangled now, their sides pressed together, hearts beating towards each other's through their ribs, Murph turns away from the echo of the door slamming to slide an arm under Connor’s head, and buries his face in his throat.

Connor’s fists curl up again.

 

* * *

Da got shot in LA and he went out happy, old fuck. Blaze of glory, coat flapping, that sort of shite. Kept firing even as he was going, jerked back and stumbling and tipping off the edge into the river. Absolutely his style.

Christ, Connor was sure he’d have tipped his hat if he could.

They’d have mourned, except in some fucked up way he’d always been gone. Gone and then there, but that wasn’t a Da, not really. Wasn’t entirely a _man_  they’d had with them. Only new to being men themselves and there came a Father (in theory), taking charge and looking like Murphy in his mouth and the set of his jaw and Connor by his frown, and by his hands. Looking set to make them feel like boys all over again. Connor still hadn’t got his head round it yet, not five months after. A leader, fine, but a _father_ made no fucking sense. There was barely room for Ma between he and Murphy.

Da? An idea. Gone and then there and then gone again. Connor's throat had tightened up but in the end it ( _had to_ ) ran like water, off their shoulders; tears washed away, and moving on.

Scared the shit of them, though. _That_ …aye.

Not exactly got God’s protection, then. Say what you want about baptism or Lethean similes but Da was dead and Murph had to half-drag Connor through a maze of crates and streets away from the docks because one of the (many) fuckers they hadn’t expected had stamped on his knee, dislocated it. Maybe their luck was running out. Maybe it was a sign. Connor cried out sharply and bit on the noise and _hisssssssssed_ as Murph cracked his knee back, thumped his wrist against his forehead and cursed out through his clenched teeth that he’d like a sign a bit more fucking _subtle,_ then, for once.

They tried to work it out, after, when they were somewhere safe. Sitting closer than normal, which was difficult for them, becausee. A new room, and not a trace of Da with them anymore - which was one of Il Duce's rules, still lingering. You leave a place, you leave nothing; you never go back anywhere; you are never traceable; you can lay a hand on Connor's head from time to time but never Murphy's, because he's more like you, and that reminds you not actually of yourself once but that you’re a father, which you’re not good at.

They couldn't eat much of the Chinese they’d ordered. Connor had called, standing up, carefully taking his weight on and off his knee, while Murph cleaned their guns. Sitting on his bed with one leg drawn up, taking ages because he kept stopping, frowning, to gnaw the side of his thumb and watch his twin.

Murph’s fingers were twisting again, into the edge of his takeout box, his lip. Connor flicked one of his chopsticks back and forth between his tattooed index finger and his middle one as he thought, thought, the movement like a finger itself, chiding him. _Tut tut tut._ What did they do _wrong?_  They knew they weren’t infallible, or invincible. Look at Yakavetta. Rocco. Except _that_  had led to them Da, and now he was gone. Maybe this was God saying stop. For a bit, at least. Maybe?

Or, he’d hoped. They’d _hoped._

Maybe Da needed to go.

Was that kind of moment a _reward_?

_Give and ye shall receive._

 Well, take a look at what he amd Murph received.

 

* * *

 

A maybe: One day Murphy’ll wake up and he’ll be able to see Connor.

A maybe: One day Murphy’ll wake up and be able to see himself.

 

* * *

Comparatively speaking (though not if Connor ever tries to lie again), Murph got fucked over the most. It happened suddenly to him, as they’ve found these things tend to. Same fucking day they lost Da.

Crash, bang.

Wake up, you’re blind.

He'd screamed for an hour. Beating and kicking and clawing the hotel walls and the furniture, breaking and blinded and _howling_ , Connor trying to hold him from behind, arms locked around his chest. Held him when they fell back on the floor, until he went limp in Connor's lap, bruised, ripped nails scratched in on the skin over Conn's ribs, clawing, holding _on_.

The tattoo on their hands were different, now, darker, Murphy’s beating bold and harsh with his heart against Connor's bare chest.

And Connor? He'd woken up _knowing_ he was different, but now _how,_ not rightaway. Only found out _later_  that any lie burns in his throat, completely. Like cordite. That he can't utter anything but truth, can't even crack his lips. That being near them does it, too; a smell like blackened cinder and an acrid taste that he chokes on, that helps lead them to bad souls.

Murphy woke up with eyes glazed white like ceramic, and the only thing to break the blackness up would be the sight of justice. To do, or when it is done. Dark and red.

Connor tried not to look at his eyes, scratched over, _staring_. Held him, a hand to the nape of his neck and arms tight, breathed hot against his ear and didn't have anything to say at all, then. Couldn't. _Could_ , yeah but. Couldn't. Just wept and shuddered with him, instead, pressed his mouth against his forehead, his temple. Own eyes blurred (not clear, not a mirror, no _fucking_  comparison between them anymore - their eyes had always been one of the few ways they looked the same), swallowing and finding, after a while, that he was humming out some long, low murmur. Did fuck all, for the most part. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything _else_.

 

* * *

 

A lie: He told Connor, before, how he felt. What he'd  _wanted_.

A lie: Connor didn't know.  _Know_  that feeling as well.

* * *

 

Connor was never a big talker, not like Murph, unless he was on some story, but he's even quieter now. There’s less to say. Fewer jokes, no excuses. Sometimes the croakiness of morning doesn’t wear off and he takes his time choosing his first words,

He knows that if he ever tries to lie he’ll go completely mute. He's had his one warning.  Had made himself tell a lie once. Murph does all the lying they might need to, now, since Connor can’t - though he's not _quite_  as good at it, as Connor was, which is ironic. Or something. - but this time, though. _This_ time, Connor had needed to. He _had_  to to get them out of there, so he _had_ to lie.

All things considered it was a stupid fucking idea but when the bouncer who’d come back to collect his forgotten keycard had caught them, Connor steering Murph out of the back door to the club they’d just hit, he’d given them that look of possible recognition Connor’s seen a few times. Like they think but…they’re not… _sure_ … 

Murph couldn’t lie, because he was still dizzy from the stool to his head – you can’t hear everything over gunshots. _Jokes about blind spots here, then, Connor, come on._ Murphy says they have to try and laugh at it. Fucked up thing is sometimes they really do. How’s this: The last time Murph ever saw Connor with his true eyes, it was his back in some hotel room’s crap bathroom light, as he took a piss. At least they know more idioms and sayings than they’ll ever need, from Doc, and there’s more than one which covers Sight, at least, so Connor _can_ find a way to make him laugh. Black humour. Murph _needs_ laughter more now. Raw. He needs to break the skin of Connor’s throat with his teeth as he curls both fingers up and hear his moans go ragged, and he needs to find a way to laugh.

So. Connor'd had to hitch Murph’s arm tighter around his waist, lean against the doorframe and just talk. Went for a French lilt, namedropped the boss he’d just put three bullets in as a good man but explain alas his friend was completely gone on the cheap shipment he’d just got in. He’d said they al— and then he couldn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn't speak at all.

All worked out well in the end, but fuck. He went still, holding his throat, mouth open and his eyes huge. Coughed, tried to cover it, and then nothing but a hoarse whistlecroak when he strained that got drowned out by Murphy anyway – dizziness clearing up enough for him to realise, _he can't hear his brother,_ the panic cutting through the lack of noise and movement to make him twist, wobbling unsteadily and risking losing his sunglasses, to claw at Connor’s arm and ask him _What …what is it, **what**_?

It had ended up making the bloke too nervous, looking round – he'd slinked past, ran back to his car and then got gone. Probably thought Connor was ODing.

Wasn’t his biggest concern right then.

Like when Murph first lost his sight, when they thought maybe he'd get it back but he didn't. It's the same feeling. Twinned. Maybe he'd lost his voice forever and he'd never- but Murphy needs to hear him, because he can't _see_. He can't have no voice, no, or his brother will go crazy, his brother will fall further into black and leave him alone, unable even to scream after him. He knows. Murphy _needs_  his sound, so Connor'd had to stumble them (blindly) both into an alley and push him up against the wall with his body, rough, terror and what _if_ it’s— All white noise in his head, cupping Murph’s face and pressing to him and breathing out air between his teeth into _hhshhhsh,_  the only thing he could do in answer to the dark, desperate whine coming from Murphy's chest. Hitching up and in.

Still warm guns hidden under their coats knocking dully, yanking his gloves off with his teeth and sliding his shades down and off and holding Murph's jaw again. He’d rested his palms there, thumb over Murph's lips and their foreheads pushed together, their eyes closed, Murph's fingers locked into his biceps and his fingers digging, digging in.

He’d only moved when Murphy made a new, sudden noise. Blinked them open to look steady into Murphy's darting white eyes and you know _oh God_ he still looks as if he _looks._ He still tries to _see._ And he was staring, at Connor. Blinked, squeezed them tight shut and then open again, not dizzy anymore, and then he’d started shivering. Bit his lip _hard_ and moaned, and told Connor that he could see him. He could _see him._

All Murph sees is justice, and this was. A sign. A reminder, to Connor.

Wrong, that Connor has considered doing it again, to let his brother see him.

Murph had reached up, brushed Connor's eyes and mouth and throat; laced his fingers into Connor's hair and gripped him. And kissed him, once, the first time, trembling. Moaned again and cried against his cheeks.

All that night, the next morning, the day, Connor couldn't talk. Finally, he'd swallowed and tried again in the next night, just small, a breath, Murph was still sitting up with him, thigh against his, own mouth croaky and dry from talking all the time, from soothing, from checking. Impossible to describe to someone else how that had been  _comfort,_ his brother also in pain, but it was. Connor had tried the first word in his head, when his mouth felt less burnt by righteousness; the same one he'd been trying, silent except in his thoughts. 

 _mfn mghhh m mu r p  h_.

 It sounded muffled, like they were kissing again.

Then they were.

They were.

 

* * *

A truth: Connor _would_ lie for him, if it could protect it.

A truth: Connor would lie even if his tongue turned to ash, just for _that_.


End file.
